SATURDAY MORNING HE worked in the yard, since he was taking the train north to San Francisco the following day. He raked leaves and lit a bonfire of them – the wind was favourable, blowing the smoke away from Mrs Delaware and down the hill towards Hollywood. He went in and showered but didn’t shave, then changed into light khaki trousers and a blue-and-white cotton short-sleeved shirt – it was already in the high seventies according to the radio.
He got the car out and drove to Hollywood Boulevard, where he parked down the block from the barber shop. As he approached it on foot, he saw there were two squad cars outside, and a crowd gathered in front of the rotating candy-cane barber’s pole. A tall cop stood in the doorway of the shop, barring the way. Peering past him, Nessheim could just make out a figure in the nearest chair, the one where Nessheim had been planning to get his shave. Whoever sat there had been covered down to the waist by a barber’s sheet, which was soaked in big splotches of darkening blood. The floor around the chair was slick with it.
Outside on the sidewalk he saw Albert and the other barbers standing with a policeman, who was taking notes. Seeing another cop, standing by a patrol car, he went up to him.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Read the paper tomorrow and you’ll find out.’ The cop raised both hands to shoo him away.
‘I’m with the FBI.’
‘Sure, and so’s my sister.’
‘I work with your sister. So now will you tell me what happened?’
‘You got a badge?’
‘No, I’m off duty. I was coming here to get a shave.’
The cop seemed to relent slightly. ‘Be glad you weren’t here earlier, then. Anyway, Homicide’s arrived. He can tell you what happened.’
They were joined by Dickerson, the same detective whom Nessheim had seen at Mrs Oka’s apartment.
Dickerson said, ‘We meet again. You here for the Bureau this time too?’
‘Nope. I was just coming for a shave.’
‘So was the stiff. Guy named Lapides – did you know him?’
‘We both came here on Saturday mornings. That’s about it.’
Dickerson said, ‘Kind of strange, don’t you think?’
‘How’s that?’
‘Any way you look at it, this spells a mob hit. I mean, a guy comes into the barber shop and sits down, even though there’s a chair going. Says he wants to wait for Albert, who’s busy with a shave for another customer.
‘Then a minute later another guy comes through the door, carrying a .45 the size of your arm. He covers the room, while his friend gets up, takes the razor out of Albert’s hand and slices the throat of Mr Lapides like a butter pat. Then they both stroll out of the place, cool as cucumbers.
‘This Albert fellow – he’s the owner – says the stiff worked in insurance. Lapides lived two blocks away – a couple of kids, nice wife, not much money but they got by. So why does he get his throat slit?’
‘Maybe he sold a bad premium.’
‘I read that book too. But this Jimmy Lapides didn’t sell insurance; he was a clerk in the payroll department.’
Nessheim glanced over at the barber shop and the sheet-covered corpse. ‘Have you talked to Mrs Lapides?’
‘Not yet. But if Albert’s got it right, she’s not exactly femme fatale material.’
The beat cop spoke up, without looking at Nessheim. ‘One of the other barbers said the killer asked if the guy was “Jimmy”.’
‘That was Lapides’s first name,’ said Nessheim. He didn’t like where this was heading.
‘The barber said he was called Jimmy One.’
‘Yeah,’ said Nessheim.
He was about to explain when Dickerson interrupted, ‘I’m wondering if the killers screwed up. If Lapides was Jimmy One, then I’d like to find Jimmy Two. I’d put a dollar on a dime it was him they were looking to ice.’